Statue of “The Dying Cúchulainn ” by Oliver Sheppard (1911), now at the GPO, Dublin.
The image of Cúchulainn is invoked by both Irish nationalists and Ulster Loyalists. Largely due to the efforts of the deluded Irish patriot Patrick Pearse, Irish nationalists see him as the greatest “Celtic” Irish hero, and thus he is important to their whole culture. A bronze sculpture of the dead Cúchulainn by Oliver Sheppard stands in the Dublin General Post Office (GPO) in commemoration of the Easter Rising of 1916. By contrast, unionists and loyalists see him as an Ulsterman defending the province from enemies to the south: in Belfast, for example, he is depicted in a UDA mural on Highfield Drive and another in Rathcoole describes him as “The beginning of the Red Hand Commando” He was formerly depicted in another UDA mural on the Newtownards Road, as the “defender of Ulster from Irish attacks”. These murals are ironically based on the Sheppard sculpture. He is also depicted in murals in nationalist parts of the city and many nationalist areas of Northern Ireland. The statue’s image was also used on the Irish Republic’s ten shilling coin produced for 1966. The 1916 Medal, the 1916-1966 Survivors Medal and the Military Star for the Irish Defence Forces all have the image of Cúchulainn on their Obverse.
The ancient tale known as the Táin Bó Cuailgne, the ‘Cattle-Raid of Cooley’, is the masterpiece of Irish saga literature. Indeed, it is the oldest vernacular story in Western European literature, and therefore holds an eminent place not only within the development of Irish literature, but within that of European literature as well. Thomas Kinsella has pointed out: “The language of the earliest form of the story is dated to the eighth century, but some of the verse chapters may be two centuries older [and] must have had a long oral existence before [receiving] a literary shape.”
No sooner were Maeve’s armies making their advance into the North than the fighting men of Ulster were afflicted with their ‘pangs’ and could offer no resistance. Cúchulainn, who, as we have already seen, was unaffected by this debility, had to defend his homeland single-handedly. While the story then concentrates on the gigantic and bloody one-sided battle that now raged (one-sided, that is, from the point of view of the invaders, for their ranks were steadily decimated by Ulster’s hero), the saga also brings in a very tragic episode — the combat between Cúchulainn and his southern foster-brother, Ferdia. Unlike the approach taken with the other battle sequences, where blood and heads fly as a matter of course and where humanitarian considerations seem remote, the story of this combat between the two men is described with great emotion, pathos, even tenderness. While this pathos is undoubtedly directed at the tragedy of two foster-brothers thus locked in mortal combat, nevertheless the episode is a remarkably moving depiction of the absurdity and futility of man’s preoccupation with violence and killing.
Finally King Conor managed to raise himself from his ‘pangs’ and summoned his warriors with a rousing battle oration: “As the sky is above us, the earth beneath us and the sea all around us, I swear that unless the sky with all its stars should fall upon the earth, or the ground burst open in an earthquake, or the sea sweep over the land, we shall never retreat one inch, but shall gain victory in battle and return every woman to her family and every cow to its byre.”
Soon, as Queen Maeve scanned the plain before her, she saw a great grey mist which filled the void between heaven and earth, with what seemed like sifted snow falling down, above which flew a multitude of birds, and all this accompanied by a great clamour and uproar. One of Maeve’s warriors turned to her. “The grey mist we see is the fierce breathing of the horses and heroes, the sifted snow is the foam and froth being cast from the horses’ bits, and the birds are the clods of earth flung up by the horses’ dashing hooves.”
“It matters little,” retorted Maeve, “we have good warriors with which to oppose them.”
“I wouldn’t count on that,” replied the warrior, “for I assure you you won’t find in all Ireland or Alba a host which can oppose the Ulstermen once their fits of wrath come upon them.”
The warrior’s prediction was quite accurate, for Maeve’s armies were completely routed and fled in disarray, Maeve herself only escaping death through Cúchulainn’s personal intervention.
Maeve never forgave Cúchulainn the humiliation she and her army had suffered as a result of their inglorious incursion into Ulster. Even his sparing of her life was immaterial to her intense desire for revenge. Conor, suspecting that Maeve was plotting the Champion’s downfall, ordered him to be sent into seclusion, but Maeve, calling upon the dark arts of magic, had his mind so bewitched he hallucinated that his enemies were once again invading and despoiling his homeland. Cúchulainn’s wife, Emer, realising that things were greatly amiss with her beloved, redoubled her efforts to restrain him from dashing out of Emain Macha to do battle. Despite being reassured that his visions were unreal phantoms, they persisted, and finally Cúchulainn managed to slip away from the security of his friends, having convinced his loyal charioteer, Laeg, to accompany him.
Cúchulainn then encountered a series of ill omens, and realised that events were rapidly taking him to his final destiny. His enemies were drawn up, in full battle array, their chosen battleground Cúchulainn’s ancestral territory — Mag Muirthemne. Once more, Cúchulainn proved why he inspired so much terror in the hearts of his enemies.He played equally with spear, shield, and sword, he performed all the feats of a warrior. As many as there are of grains of sand in the sea, of stars in the heaven, of dewdrops in May, of snowflakes in winter, of hailstones in a storm, or leaves in a forest, of ears of corn in the plains of Bregia, of sods beneath the feet of the steeds of Erin on a summer’s day, so many halves of heads, and halves of shields, and halves of hands and halves of feet, so many red bones were scattered by him throughout the plain of Muirthemne, it became grey with the brains of his enemies, so fierce and furious was Cúchulainn’s onslaught.
However, with his enemies now being aided by the sinister forces of magic, the outcome was inevitable. Three of Cúchulainn’s bitterest enemies confronted him with a spear which they were told had magical powers and would that day lay low a king. The first throw, however, instead of piercing Cúchulainn, killed his faithful companion, Laeg — the ‘king’ of charioteers. Furious, his assailants threw again, but this time it was the Champion’s noble steed, the Grey of Macha — the ‘king’ of steeds — which received a mortal wound and galloped off. The third throw finally struck Cúchulainn, causing a terrible injury to his stomach.
The fatally-wounded Champion struggled over to a tall stone and tied himself to it, so that he could die standing. As his enemies edged closer, still in awe of this great warrior, Cúchulainn’s dying but ever-faithful steed returned once more to his side, scattering the advancing foes with terrible charges into their ranks. It was all to no avail, and Cúchulainn’s enemies sensed that victory was finally to be theirs. Yet, even after one of them smote off the Champion’s head, Cúchulainn’s sword, falling now from his lifeless arm, severed the hand of his assailant.
As his enemies rejoiced and celebrated their great victory around the dead hero, his lifelong friend Conall Cearnach came upon the scene, and in a terrible fit of anger exacted a fierce revenge, before finally carrying the body of his companion back to Emain Macha. Emer, on seeing her dead husband, was smitten with intense grief. She washed clean the head and she joined it on to its body, and she pressed it to her heart and her bosom, and fell to lamenting and heavily sorrowing over it, and she placed around the head a lovely satin cloth.
‘Ochone!’ said she, ‘good was the beauty of this head, although it is low this day, and it is many of the kings and princes of the world would be keening it if they thought it was like this. Love of my soul, O friend, O gentle sweetheart, and O thou one choice of the men of the earth, many is the woman envied me thee until now, and I shall not live after thee’, and her soul departed out of her, and she herself and Cúchulainn were laid in the one grave by Conall, and he raised their stone over their tomb, and he wrote their names in Ogam, and their funeral games were performed by him and the Ulstermen.
To be continued